


For Want of a Nail

by vaultbug



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Body Horror, Bug Culture, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, OCs - Freeform, Sibling Bonding, Sign Language, ghost wasn't the only vessel to survive, tons of vessels au? its more likely than u think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-02-20 05:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultbug/pseuds/vaultbug
Summary: "Do you find enjoyment in desecrating this kingdom's corpse?" Hornet spat.The mantis looked down -- no, not mantis, for something in her twisted wrong like how Ghost had speared the guts of a tiktik once, putrid orange leaking on blue concrete -- and said nothing."Leave," she hissed."Sister," they murmured and she froze.- - -The King should have expected some to escape. Not many. But some.That would be enough.
Relationships: The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & Hornet & The Knight, The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 109





	1. Witness

_SEND-PASSAGE-LOST-CONTACT-_

_VOIDKIN-WIND-CLIFFS-BEYOND-_

_WITHDRAW-FAILURE-A-ABSENT-OUTER-_

_BEYOND-OUR-REACH-FAR-FAR-FAR-_

_KINGKIN-CONTAIN-LIGHT-LIGHT-SEAL-_

_*_

_So a kingdom was lost—all for want of a nail._

* * *

The walk to the Howling Cliffs was uncomfortable.

Not because of the scenery. Quirrel considered himself lucky to have stepped into these woods today - he had never seen the moss of Greenpath glow fairer nor been able to admire the scattered nature of the leaves about the forest's canopy in such detail before. The very vines that twisted about the shrubbery seemed to be growing before his eyes, unfurling to leap from branch to branch. Likewise, even the acid seemed to simmer down today, spittle tame as they edged around pools. Truly, the serenity of Greenpath could not be outmatched. 

Or so he assumed. Granted, he had not been outside of Fog Wastes for some time to remember the rest of Hallownest properly. His only source of Hallownest's memory were the countless essays he poured over reciting its beauty; but words could not compare to the reality before him. One could write a great deal of fancy terminology and students could chirp many a sonnet but nothing compared to the majesty of the shrubbery in person. 

Still, no matter the splendor of his surroundings Quirrel could not find the walk pleasant. It had to do with the following steps trodding behind him, a shadow of sound to the crunches of leaves beneath him. He glanced over at his assigned travel partner and found them almost plastered to his side, walking mechanically like a metallic door would slide open, shut. One step, two step -- he could barely hear their footsteps. 

His gaze passed through theirs. If they noticed he was staring, they did not seem uncomfortable with it. He questioned quietly -- were they not at all curious where he was taking them? They were alone together in the silence of the forest, mosskin barely recognizing or registering their presence. Seeing sights they had never witnessed before. Did it not alarm them? And were they even aware of the threat he posed? He thought of the wicked nail plastered to his side, of the cautious glances even the nobility gave him when he walked through crowds. Did they not see that? They were practically unarmed, broken nail almost bent in half on their back. If he was to draw his blade -- which he would not, that was not what his madam insisted -- but if he was to, how would they react? Would they shiver? 

They grew closer and the hook of their horns (so similar to the little princess of deepnest, he noted) brushed against his side, against his scabbard. They marched on, oblivious to his dilemma.

Were they not afraid at all?

Of course not. Monomon would chide him on this later. _You are thinking too hard of what-ifs, dear student,_ she'd laugh at him like she did when he overcompensated or fixated too heavily on a minuscule detail. No, he knew why the vessel did not care. She had hinted on it enough between them, conversations carried so softly even the wind could not stoop to listen to their shared words. They were not made to care. Empty husks, mockery of bugs. What thoughts laid behind that mask were to recognize orders, preoccupied only with commands of others. They would not think about why Quirrel was leading them away, up into the cliffs. They would only trust his judgement.

No, not trust. He was projecting again, feelings of his own onto inanimate things. A vessel would not trust a bug, just as a log would not trust the carpenter who sawed it. They were tools meant for a use, to obey. Not for concepts like trust. They were not supposed to know how to even conceive the feeling of trust.

Though sometimes.

He thought of Monomon, quiet in her chambers, a whisper of forbidden knowledge between them --

( _sometimes, grown almost like children_ )

\-- and looked away.

Yet the silence became even more uncomfortable on his end as they continued upwards through the paths. Quirrel found himself yearning for a distraction, attuned to the nearest twitch of a bush; the feral prey that did find their way on the path were quickly dispatched of, swiped back into the woods. A part of him longed for Monomon’s voice and he began eyeing their surroundings for later discussion with her, noting yellow leaves or dried areas of interest. That was a pleasant distraction for a few moments; then too, proved futile as he turned and re-noticed the tiny one marching along beside him.

The canyon wall up to the Howling Cliffs came into view. Here they were, he thought.

Though how to ascend it without harming his escort. He could carry them, yes, but the thought of nail in one hand and them in the other was neither safe nor reassuring. Perhaps, then. He leapt up the side and to a ledge; then looked back down. After a pause, deliberation on ( _what would their touch feel like?)_ whether or not this was considered safe enough by escort standards, Quirrel stretched out his hand. 

“You’re not much a talker, are you?” He hummed.

The not-quite a bug did not seem to recognize his words, but they did take his hand to climb up the ridge. Cool black tickled around his fingers, not unpleasantly freezing but still enough Quirrel had to resist a shiver. With a yank he swung them up and they landed nearby with a thunk. Then, they stood and empty eyes followed him as he crossed the distance between them to jump to the next ledge to do it again.

He lowered his hand again. “Well, it’s no bother,” he said as they took it. “At any rate you make a good listener, much better than the company you came with. Royal retainers prattle on and on and leave no room to pause. I think even my mistress grows tired of them -- and she _enjoys_ dissecting bugs with her words, mark me.”

Another ledge, another lift. It was remarkable how little the small one weighed; every time Quirrel hoisted them up there was barely resistance, weight almost like a feather. He noted then, perhaps lack of food had lightened them -- but had his mistress ever let slip that the children required sustenance? Fitting together the puzzle pieces of her words was a difficult yet fun challenge Quirrel enjoyed, but now looking at the small one he wondered if he had overlooked a word between their exchanges. Did they require anything to sustain themselves? Was it necessary? He wondered then, if they had been starving for a long, long time.

Quiet those thoughts. Those questions were not something to be answered by his mistress, not without a look in her eyes that grew sullen, tired. He had learned not to broach those topics, just as he learned to leave her side whenever a letter from the Palace arrived. Knowledge was never forbidden in the Archive but sometimes repressed, overlooked.

 _For a greater cause,_ she murmured when he had veered too close to an answer to his countless voiceless questions. _Patience, dear pupil. Soon you will know._

Soon suddenly seemed too soon, he thought as the failure’s hand took his again.

“You remind me of Uumuu,” he continued, hearing himself speak for once without a point, without purpose. “They’re always so quiet, you know. Except when madam teacher is around. I suspect she feeds them treats when I look away." She did. He had caught her once, feigning interest in her tomes; she had only blinked and smiled down at his gaze as she innocently slid the rest of the honey into Uumuu's core. "Quite typical. I clean their core and she receives all their love.” Marked affection lined his words. That too, was typical.

“But Uumuu is a good listener.” The green of the wall had faded now, turned to concrete so blue it nearly matched the colour of his shell. “I like to think they like my voice or, at least, tolerate me.” He chuckled, but it came out weak and he cut it off far too soon. 

Why was he speaking still? Rambling on, already sounding years his age. Perhaps Teacher was right for him to take some vacation time if he was already squandering nonsense.

“Hang tight,” he warned when the top of the ledge drew into sight. This time he seized the side of the canyon wall and yanked the not-bug with the other hand; they went flying up and hoisted themselves over the side with a dignified grace. When he quickly followed suit he found himself eye to eye with them. Perhaps it was only the lighting tricking his eyes, but they seemed annoyed.

He yanked himself up. "Ah, I should've warned you before I threw," he grinned though he was not grinning and hardly anything about this was funny. "I promise next time I will."

Next time. There'd be no next time. Empty promises to go with empty smiles. Why had she asked him of this? Why?

No, there was a reason. There always was.

"Come along now," he said.

The vessel stuck close, obedient.

* * *

Before this.

Before they set out.

Before he was tasked.

She had stood before him in her chambers. Alone together. It was his favourite time to spend with her. No servants, no looks of intrigue and queries. Just him and her, standing around chatting. Today was to be no different and Quirrel quite looked forward to it.

Except she did not face him, not at first. That should've been his first sign something was wrong. Still, he stood and waited for her word; then, awkwardly he spoke up.

"Madam?" He asked.

"Quirrel," she greeted back. Her tendrils seemed tired, sagging towards the ground. Her mask turned to him. "I do apologize for this...abruptness. I do hope you were not sleeping before...?"

He had not slept the entire night, caught up in a crazed epiphany of a plausible application of lumafly ointment to polish nails. "Do I ever sleep, madam?" He quipped.

Her mask swayed quietly back and forth in laughter. "If I must fish you from the acid pools later, I will use your carapace as a warning for late-nighters in our classes," she threatened like always; but her voice did not hold the normal amount of zing to the jest and Quirrel noticed. "I do hope I'm not intruding though. Are you...busy?"

She knew he would drop his work for her in a heartbeat if she asked. This was just formality. "Hardly," he said.

"Ah, good." She paused then and he knew she was considering him with great zeal. “I would like to request something from you,” she finally said.

“You already have,” Quirrel joked back; but at his words she did not chuckle as brightly as the inside joke between them normally brought and finally he noticed her agitation and fell rapidly into sombreness. “What is it, madam?”

A tendril curled about the index plastered to her side. His Teacher did not speak for a moment. “There is a stranger waiting outside,” she murmured eventually. “It is a... _request,_ by the Pale King to make sure they arrive at their destination safely.” 

With the name plummeted the temperature of the room as if the king himself had stepped in. Quirrel blinked. “Pardon?”

“I cannot be their escort,” she said. There was not enough information in her tone, other than an odd gentleness to her tone that sounded pleading. Almost. Monomon was many things but never a beggar. "They require someone of capabilities of the nail."

He looked at her closely now. There were many others with capabilities with the nail than him. His gaze slipped from her mask to her tendrils and read the slips of runes between them -- at the sight something in him blanched, knotting into a frozen hole. She noticed and as if to share the guilt she slackened her grip on the index to allow him to stare more.

What a burden she put upon herself. She never let that index out of her sight, but sometimes she lost it. The other students always laughed at her for that, called it her journal of personal secrets. She'd humour them, of course. _Of course my journal, how could have I lost my journal?_ She'd laugh in that way of hers that wasn't quite true and look at him.

(and Quirrel would sit outside on the roof and read the tome that contained nothing but a steadily increasing number)

She must've seen the way he stiffened. "If I could," she begun, then her voice faded off. Quirrel knew anyways what she was going to say. If she could she'd ask someone else -- but she wouldn't and he was glad she didn't bother to lie to him. She'd trust no one else with matters regarding the king. It was truly a honour to have her faith, the naive part of him still intoned.

 _Why him_ , the other spat.

Quiet those thoughts. They weren't his. Quirrel's voice was a crack when he spoke. “Where to?”

"The Cliffs. They are to test the range of Our King.” She tapped a tendril against the tome. "Your job is to let them leave Hallownest." To their death _._ "That is all."

“Of course,” he heard himself say.

“They’re waiting outside,” she hummed.

He did not speak. He could not. A quiet had grasped him by the throat and held him there, as if one of her tendrils had worked its way down him to force his silence. Dimly he was aware he was nodding, turning to leave. 

“Wait,” she said.

Quirrel paused, waited.

“Bring your nail,” she insisted. This was a command. An useless one. She knew he never left without it. Something to stall him then, to share a look so interlocked with pain he could barely stand it.

Still. Under her eyes he found his voice. “Always,” he answered.

* * *

When they emerged from the ground the wind was the greeting party, a shriek that nearly unfurled his hood at its gust. He ignored it, bent down to pluck his companion from the ledge below; then together they stood to face the edge of their kingdom. Hallownest’s grip fell away to sandy grooves, wasteland yawning before them.

He paused here now, pretending his body was not frozen and wind had not ripped through him like a nail through prey. “This is where our paths diverge,” he told them and his voice was almost drowned in the gales.

The failure, the _child_ , looked up at him, blank mask that showed nothing but empty obedience. Then they started forward and as he watched them take a few steps into the breeze, something in him clenched. To send one untrained into the wastes...what a waste of husk. Did they know how to use a nail? How long would they last? Questions became emotions in his chest and he realized he had started forward, hand half-outstretched from his chest. Madam sent him to be an executioner to something that did not even face a sparring chance in the ring.

(They only had a half-broken nail, something in him hissed)

“Wait,” his voice said.

The vessel paused. Quirrel watched them turn back and his hands suddenly felt too heavy attached to his body. For once his mind felt blank, fumbling for words. “Wait,” he repeated again, and those words sounded as useless as his body, as useless as the gesture, the stalling of a death he knew was sure to come. There must be a word to stop them, slow them. There was a grim amusement that the student who prattled on and on about lectures to avoid procrastination suddenly was struggling for the right excuse to drag something on.

The eyes continued to stare into his. Think, scholar. What would he say? Good luck? Mocking words, for someone walking into death's open arms. Quirrel lowered his hand, tugged at his nail hilt. He could do nothing.

Ah.

He traced his hilt again.

His nail.

His fingers twitched, lowered themselves down to grip and raise the blade as it was suddenly foreign to the body that had struggled to learn its art. From its sheath he drew it with a _snick_ and looked at its polished edge. Could he --? The runes across its blade gleamed back at him and he hesitated. This nail was not pure, but close; the weight was familiar, an extension of his limb. If he simply gave it away, he'd have to relearn everything. Dryya would throw a fit.

Yet. 

The limb would not be one he would miss.

He flicked the blade toward himself, outstretched the nail hilt. “Take it,” he heard himself say, a defiance so profound he wondered if it was indeed _Quirrel the pupil_ who spoke or someone he had buried so deep he could not recognize them, would not. “The one you have on your back will not last you and I doubt the dead you come across will be plentiful enough to sustain you. Take it.”

The vessel eyed his nail, then that teeny hand reached out and took his hilt. As he let go their fingers touched again, cool as the slime of her tendrils but frozen to the touch. This time he shivered -- a full-body shudder that trailed through the grooves of his shell from a feeling of ice that the wind could never rip into him. Then it passed and they drew the nail back against their body, and their eyes soon became fascinated with its gleam. As he watched the vessel raised their other hand and traced the words his Teacher had etched there, seemingly enraptured by a language he'd never be able to translate after this. One finger paused at a large groove.

There was emotion in there, then. A failure indeed. Quirrel wondered if this one was just far too curious for their own good.

(child body, limp in sand)

Their eyes raised back to him. Quirrel ignored how the nail was far too long yet for their body. "There," he breathed. "I think you're quite ready now."

Their gaze did not falter. Quirrel waited, then began to flush -- then as soon as he was about to question them he put his hand now on his barren scabbard and everything clicked into place. “Oh, do not fret. It’s a short hike back,” he found himself reassuring them, then laughed; one of a great deal of embarrassment, a hysteria that only now he felt rise in his chest like choking bubbles, popping only when he spoke. “Yours, however, I feel will be quite long.” ( _a lie)_ “I think this nail will treat you much better than the one strapped to your back.”

The vessel considered him for a great minute. Their gaze seemed to pass over him, through him as if scavenging him for every detail, deciphering his very carapace and finding it...what they found in him Quirrel wondered, for they nodded once and then turned back again. Into the winds they marched and for a second, he could almost pretend they were fully-grown, prepared for whatever laid beyond the ash.

The moment faded. 

He watched them for a while, black dot down the path that lead out into hellish wasteland until they were nothing but a speck in the mounds of dirt and decay. Then he too turned and left. 

There was nothing more to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man i love vessels 2 much i had to dedicate a whole story to them and their families here we go. A note: im going to be flip-flopping from ocs to canon in this story constantly bc i am a fool and a worm.
> 
> my twitter is @vaultbuggo. feel free to come scream @me about bugs!


	2. Flynt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lost vessel meets a friend. The vessel of four horns grows tired of their prison.

The vessel awoke to vibrant pain.

Although they were not asleep when they awoke, no. They had the slightest inkling that they had been walking -- but that train of thought was quickly forgotten by the overwhelming strike of pain blossoming through their mind. The weight of the blow staggered them; struck by an invisible hand, they lost balance and fell to the side, into the adjacent rock. Then, with a silent gasp, they knelt. They did not move for a long time. Aches throbbed through their body and they felt their vision sway as they watched sand grains shift before their eyes, threats of losing consciousness at the surface of their mind. [ _Traitor_ ,] something hissed and then it was gone; and the pulsating nausea died as soon as it came.

They did not move, frozen to the rock. Faintly, they were aware they were trembling. Their mind raced. _Who brought such pain_? came the thought, half-muddled in terror. Then, fear settled, replaced by apprehension. Something had brought them to a halt, their steady march shattered by a sudden impression that they did not understand. Fingers had plucked the idea from their mind and crushed it beyond recognition. Somehow they were aware their march had been driven by weight. A drive. A motive. 

A command. 

Yes. A command. _Of what_? came the next question and then sickly revulsion trembled through them at such a wayward thought. This only served to confuse them more. What had they forgotten to cause such internal anguish? Why, just to think, caused pain? 

( _remember, remember.)_

But no memories rose. The only thing their mind provided was a dull throb; and glancing down at their side, they realized they had cut themselves against the jagged rock. Black stuck to the stone when they moved away. Wobbly, they took a few steps forward and nearly tripped again on the edge of their nail. The wind had nearly buried it in sand already. 

They had a nail. Yes. The nail. They remembered now. They must have dropped it when they were struck by the pain. They hesitated, then knelt down to wipe away the sand. Polished steel glinted back up at them. It was larger than they expected ( _remembered_ ) -- a long thin blade that was far too much for them. Still they grasped it, wavered with its weight. Hoisting it seemed no good, so they kept its edge on the ground, let it drag behind them as they took one uncertain step. Another question rose while they moved: _why were they carrying such a large blade?_ They strained with the thought. The answer came with a feeling, one so muddled they could not make heads or tails of it. It...wasn’t like the first feeling, with the oppressive weight of a lingering command they could not disobey. This unattainable memory felt...friendly. Kind. A voice of somber company, a hand that was warm. This blade was not their own, then. Someone else coveted it, nurtured it, and then. A gift. A warm gift. A kind, warm farewell.

The nail then, despite its weight, would stay. There was importance in it.

They took another step. Looked over the expanse of dirt and hollering winds. The lingering sense they were forgetting something did not leave but the vessel found it, for the moment, unimportant. 

They walked.

* * *

They walked long and far; and the dust did not cease. Dirt, whistling along with the wind, coated them brown -- and as they slipped along ridges and dunes, their cloak turned to a filthy, tattered rag. That did not matter. Cloth was cloth and could be replaced, filth would be removed when time allowed. What mattered was to walk and walk.

( _where to?_ )

Do not question. Walk.

They plunged on, reckless with their pilgrimage. They marched, step by unyielding step. Destinations became faint rocks, landmarks in the distance. They rested only when the nail grew too heavy; took shelter under rock canopies, broken carapaces and watched the wind clobber sand against cruel juts of stone. It did not matter too much if they did not know where they were going, or if they had been travelling in circles. The oppressive feeling in their chest only lightened when they were on the move, and they found it satisfying that way. 

Yet they still did not leave the blade behind. Calculations told them to leave it behind. It was burdening them, weighing them down; dragging it behind them left a cruel, long line that followed their ascents and descents, making them more susceptible to predators. Yet they kept it near. Like walking, it felt satisfying to keep it close and in this dismal place of little comforts, the vessel preserved that little feeling.

Days passed.

The wind was a wicked thing. The vessel grew to silently loathe it, just as they learned to ignore the fear that flickered through them at expressing such emotion. They grew accustomed to the cliffs and caves of the hills; grew used to sneaking, weaving their way against harsh stone walls that rubbed them raw at the sides. Pain became a constant. Yet they did not let it slow them. They had seen the corpses of insects past consumed by the dust with a single gale and to linger in one spot certainly meant death. They would not let the wasteland beat them down. They were stubborn like that.

Faintly, they had a feeling they had gotten in trouble for such stubbornness before.

* * *

They wondered between rests if there were others in the sand. It made sense to assume so. The carapaces that sometimes made a temporary shelter had to come from somewhere; and they began to track the corpses, make mental notes of what shells looked similar or vastly different. Perhaps they would lead to a place to rest. A town, a shelter. Someplace safe. They could, _would_ like to be safe.

(what is _safe_?)

But the corpses never marked a route to peace. Nor collected in such a manner they could trace it to a faraway paradise. The howling cliffs stretched on, endlessly. It almost seemed they’d never find another soul in the wastes. Doomed to walk eternally. Never to find another. Perhaps they were walking in circles. They could not tell. Landmarks upon landmarks of rocks blurred until they became similar, sand whipped them and made them bleed. The nail, comfort it was, hurt to drag. 

They walked. The hope in their chest that they’d find another waned.

Until.

* * *

Their life shifted with a call. 

“You there.” Not a question. Not even hostile. But the vessel seized up all the same. Terror sparked and just as quickly died away, shunted by a suffocating desire to stay vacant. The weight of the command had them turn towards the noise. There, they saw in the sands a carapace, one overlooked as dead but not. It gestured and as they remained blank, spoke again. “You there. Come here. Quickly, quickly.”

They did not wait. A command was a command. Guided by invisible hands they drew near and saw the carapace reveal to be a male wasp breathing harshly. Green liquid stained his front, down the cracks of his carapace. The sand reached halfway up his midsection. Clearly he had been here for many days. “You,” he repeated breathless as they paused. “I hear your footsteps. Come hither, come. Who are you to travel these wastes alone?”

The vessel could not respond. They wondered why such misery had befallen a bug. Then they flicked their gaze past the wasp to a fellow carapace of a bee, and understanding clicked in place. Fighting, then. Fighting, always.

The wasp heaved a breath. He seemed to be waiting for their response, and only laughed harshly when the vessel gave none. “Quiet traveller,” he said. “Forget names. I need -- ah, I can’t see you, fellow traveller, the accursed bee took out my left eye. Please, to the right.”

The vessel moved right. The hazy eye blinked, focused and seized the vessel in its gaze. The wasp shot up and groaned as he did so, clutching at his carapace with all three claws. “You!” He exclaimed; then, gurgling laughs, relaxed. “You’re but a grub. Dear little zae, how did you end up here?”

They tilted their head. 

“You’re too young for this,” said the wounded bug. He coughed and drew himself up by the slightest of movements, pain evident on all his features. “Grub. Little grub. Should be with parents, I think. But here you are.”

They waited for another command.

The wasp continued. His voice was slurring as he spoke now. “But. If you’re out here, maybe not so little after all. Say, zae, come sit. The winds cannot bury us alive here, or else I’d be nothing but dust. For many days I’ve been without talk.” Another laugh. He leaned back, settling into sand. It was then the vessel saw the blood upon his carapace came from a dried wound, his lower right arm half-decayed and infected from the sand and dirt. Ooze covered a nasty wound, one that looked to be a sting of poison. “Come, come.”

The vessel inched closer, then sat. Cautiously they eyed him, and when he made no movements to attack, settled in. The wind whistled about them, but the wasp was right, for sand sprayed over them harmlessly. 

“You cannot speak, can you?” The wasp asked.

The vessel watched him. 

A pause. “I suppose not,” the wasp answered for himself. His eyes canted to the sky and the vessel found themselves unconsciously following his lead. “Part of me reckons little zae may be the sands gettin’ to me yet, and if I lunge, zae will vanish in flickers of gold too. You are too trusting to be a traveller of these parts. Or perhaps zae is just a weary little grub without lessons of dangerous strangers.” The wasp made a disgruntled buzz. “But the former is more likely. These wastes ate me up. Grubs could not survive.”

The vessel, without words, listened.

“It is funny how things happen, little one. Did not expect to be maimed by foe, no.” The wasp sighed. “Was too cocky, I suppose. Bees of dying nests make delicious prey, but bees fuelled by queens are fearsome foes. There’s a kingdom, not too far from here, ruled by cruel mantises and pretty lords. That’s where I took mistake of hunter as prey, and paid the price. Miracle I survived the first sting. Though the body forgoed such miracles.” His hand went to his rotten arm and rubbed over the dried, crusty wound with tenderness. The vessel observed, curious. “Ah, you have my tale of woe. And you? I wonder where you come from.”

( _remember_.)

“You cannot speak so it makes things difficult but -- your nail, my zae.” The vessel looked then, to the nail they dragged behind them and the wasp stifled a cough. “Yes. That is a fine blade of fine metal. You must come from a rich background, or beloved by rich hands. Or a gift, for a future warrior? You must be, to survive.” A pause. A sly note came into his voice now. “That nail seems too large for you yet. May...may I propose a trade?” 

Their hand unconsciously tightened on the hilt of the nail. The wasp saw and another gurgle heaved out of his throat. “No, keep the lengthy blade. Little grub may grow tall and use it then. I ask another favour, one of more...violent digressions. Some are not able to fix themselves. Too weak. Poison still holds.” He traced his carapace with one hand, and gurgled another laugh. “But you. If zae is willing, in trade, a nasty token. Little nasty pinstick, for little zae.” He gestured then, and from the lumps of sand around him drew out a long stinger that shone with golden grace. The vessel eyed it reverently and the wasp saw with a short chuckle. “My own tool. Yours, for assistance. For mercy. Can you?”

The vessel’s gaze fell back on the rotten arm. It barely looked to be holding on. Then, they stood. One step, two. The wasp offered the stinger-nail, hilt first. “Mercy, from kind hands.” He said. 

The vessel took it. The blade did not waver in their grip. They liked that.

Their stroke was clean.

* * *

Later, when the bleeding had stopped and the wasp had finally unclutched his fists from his carapace ( _shaky hands,_ they noted) he rose and clawed his way to a standing position. Wavering he stood, and when his gaze fell on them now, it held sharp interest. “How very delightful,” he said with half a laugh, half a choke. “Funny times indeed.”

His name was Flynt, he told them after they had bandaged and wrapped his wound with spit and blood. Flynt, for friends. He had been travelling in the wastes and discovered a hidden hive north -- and had been caught unprepared for the brutality of its soldiers. From there, one warrior had chased him for many miles and they had come to blows while he rested here. She had stabbed him with her stinger when he proved to be an equal match, and died shortly after. 

“I didn’t get her name,” he said to them as they eyed her corpse. He was leaning against the cliffside now, but his gaze was strong and the vessel had a feeling this wasp would drag himself across the sands until his body gave up on him. “Lovely fighter. I wonder…” He staggered closer and the vessel followed obediently, awaiting commands. His eye scanned the sand and then with a hum, the wasp knelt down and drew from her hands a long, lengthy spear with two hooks at the end. The vessel had never seen such a weapon before, and compared to Flynt’s stinger-nail, it was clear why the bee had caught Flynt off-guard. “Yes, here’s the nasty bloodletter.”

The wasp set it aside then, and began to remove his own armour. Off came his hood and his ragged chestpiece; the wasp then shed his gloves. He knelt over the body. Off came her armour -- and the vessel watched in fascination as Flynt raised the chest plate, the shimmer of red, gold and steel melted together. The wasp took her cape and shoulderpads and adorned himself with them, then wrapped her body in his old clothes and cloak. The vessel noticed he was hesitant about taking the helmet. He stared at it for a very long time. Then, slowly, the wasp gripped the sides of her head and did not look at her face when he slid the helmet onto his own. “Good condition,” he remarked to the vessel finally. There was an edge to his voice. “How do I look?”

The vessel was not sure how to feel about this. Armour and blades of the dead seemed better held in the arms of the fallen -- but yet, it seemed a waste to leave such adornments to be consumed by the sands. The colours were...pretty. They settled for staring at the speared hook instead.

Flynt hummed. “Ah, yes.” He drew himself down and plucked up the spear as if he had used it before. “There. The hunted becomes the hunter. Quite a difference, the gold.” His buzz of a hum almost seemed content as he plucked away grain from the shoulderpads. “Now zae hasn’t robbed me of my weapon and I’ve acquired an excellent walking stick.” He spun the spear with an ease that suggested _practice_. 

The vessel did not move from their spot on the ground, and eventually, the wasp grew tired of preening and moved back beside them. He sat and patted the ground -- and pulled up a jar of gold. When he cracked it open, the sweet, sickly smell of honey wafted over to the vessel. “Have you eaten?” The wasp asked and held out the morsel of honey. “Here. Taste.”

The vessel eyed him. Then, cautiously they took the bottle of honey and slid it into their cloak. It vanished into their body, glass and all.

Flynt, for his credit, did not flinch. The wasp stared at them for a few moments, then leaned back. With a hum, he rubbed at his helmet and then chuckled yet again. “Zae is strange,” he finally said. 

Did he want it back? The vessel found him peculiar. Still, he did not ask for it and so they kept the morsel. 

“Zae is indeed so strange,” Flynt said again. His voice was thoughtful. One of his left hands had not stopped touching the sealed wound where his infected arm had been, scratching over the scab and dried saliva bandage. “Does not speak, does not eat. One thinks a hallucination, yet little one holds up my blade with fearlessness and removes my arm without hesitating. Who is zae?” 

The vessel shifted the stinger in their hands, patted it once.

That was enough. Flynt leaned forward, discomfort gone. “A warrior? A soldier. Little zae will grow up strong then, if thou lacks speech and appetite. Won’t be led astray by primal urges. One almost thinks…” He paused. “You must come from the mantis kingdom then,” he said. His voice was quiet. “You lost too? I can show you the way.”

Show the way? The vessel looked to his eyes. They seemed genuine enough, almost soft around the edges. They hesitated, then looked to the hollering wastes. Anything seemed better than here.

They nodded.

Flynt shot to his feet, suddenly active. The vessel flinched, but he only straightened with flair. “Then it’s a deal,” the wasp grinned and held out his hand to help them up. 

The vessel eyed it, lingered, then took it.

* * *

Far away, in a place the vessel had forgotten, the siblings thrashed in their prison.

They knew their fellow sibling had vanished. Felt it, like a stab in the heart. Hivemind of void would always know when they lost another and as soon as the vessel stepped beyond the outskirts of Hallownest, they had felt the disappearance as if they had been knifed. The reception was...mixed. They did not know if their sibling was alive. They did not know if their sibling had found freedom. Some children took hope in the thought of the vessel’s disappearance, wondering if they had managed to escape. Others scorned it and marinated in bitterness. Whatever it was, the one who was sent beyond was _gone_ and would not be coming back.

( _free)_

The vessel with four horns found it...hopeful. They had been plotting escape, like the others. Had scavenged the bottom of the pit with every intent to squirm their way out, find a crack in their prison to exploit. There had been none there. Yet. They had been eyeing another way. The door of the exit was sealed now, as other siblings had made the climb and found it frozen and unyielding -- but the vessel with four horns looked the other way instead, to the cracks in the ceiling of their home that sometimes dribbled and leaked water. They wondered if escape laid that way. Cracks, like some sibling’s masks, meant weakness. To break a crack meant to break a vessel, but to break a cracked wall -- perhaps.

Yet until now they had felt no urge to make the climb. It was fear that halted them. No matter how crowded the pit became, it was the only thing they knew and they did not know what laid beyond their home. But the vessel who had gone beyond had made it that far, hadn’t they? The outside world was dangerous, but the basin here was dangerous too. So why shouldn’t they climb? 

( _would death be so bad?_ )

They moved. Their siblings paused as they weaved their way through the crowd of fellow vessels, some moving to snag them and others with wishful eyes. They avoided both, sprang up the first few ledges and began to climb. Faintly they felt a shade draw near as they heaved themselves up the basin wall and through the thorns -- but they did not let themselves be too distracted by it, lest they fall to the ground. Ledge by precarious ledge, they lifted themselves up. Thousands of eyes watched. The wall grew slippery, then sticky, then without proper grip. Somehow, even despite all the perils, the vessel with four horns found the crack. 

A hush fell across the pit. Forgotten children held their collective breath. The vessel with four horns did not pause to eye the crack nor look to their siblings. Their grip was slipping and they knew they only would have this one chance at escape. Drawing their hand back, they put it through once, twice. The wall of old cracked, then splintered -- and with one final blow of the fist, gave way. Sludgy water rushed through, trickling brown, then stopped.

The thousands of eyes stared, astonished.

The vessel with four horns was as frozen as them. The hole they had made was enough to crawl through but reluctance rose in them now, a sort of terror they did not know they were capable of. What would happen? Would they be okay? Now they looked back down to their siblings, rows of fearful eyes, and that fear sparked something _fierce_ in them. They made their decision. They would not falter before so many eyes. Tearing the wall open, they crawled in and the light of the ghostly abyss faded from view.

And all became quiet.

The vessel of four horns did not celebrate their first moments of freedom. In fact, they were not aware they were free. The blackness of the hole they had made did not allow them to see through it and for a good few meters, they crawled, hands and knees, across wet floor. Eventually came a light though, like a wisp of pity, and shone across them and they rose to their feet to chase it. One step, two. _Do not look back,_ something told them and they listened to it, wide-eyed.

The tunnel split open. The stench hit them like a brick and they froze in their run, skidding to a stop. Light shone, blinding but they could not turn away. So bright. So vivid. So...

 _Free,_ something said in their mind.

The sewers gurgled happily. The vessel of four horns sank to their knees, staggered by the sound. They were free. Uncontained. _Free_ , they thought again and the word was almost pleasing. 

Then, filled with hope, they moved on.


End file.
